


Another Second Chance

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Jello, Recovery, zine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3724768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many second chances to two men in a dangerous job get?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Second Chance

a story from the Olliethology II

Another Second Chance  
or, the taste of industrial and artificial green jello  
~2400 words  
By Allie  
(With thanks to barancoire and jazzybabe.)

 

When they told me they’d found my partner, I got there as fast as I could. I’d been searching with one team. By luck, the different one found him first.

Over the radio, they said he was dehydrated and beat up, but okay. They’d taken him to the ranger station, and I could meet him there. I drove as fast as I could, stopping my car with a skid. I jumped out, barking my knee against the door. In my hurry, I hardly felt it. I ran into the station.

I saw him sitting inside, drinking water from a glass while people milled around and a competent-looking ranger packed up his first aid bags.

He’d wrapped Starsky’s ribs.

Starsky’s face, arms, and chest were sunburned, and he was missing his shirt. His pants were ragged, his sneakers a mess. He’d kicked them off and his bare feet looked as if they were hurting him. I saw dried blood on his clothes and shoes, but he’d been cleaned up a little already. He wasn’t bleeding anywhere.

His lips looked dry and cracked, his blue eyes very bright, somehow larger, as if the rest of his face had shrunken. Maybe that was the dehydration.

I could see he was very glad to see me.

Everybody else was a blur as I walked to him.

“Why would you take off your shirt, bozo?” I was practically crying.

“Had to wrap it round my head,” he said in a croaking voice. “Like Lawrence of Arabia.”

I sat down next to him on the bench. I wanted to touch him but thought I would probably only hurt him more.

When he’d disappeared, I followed the evidence that drug lords had kidnapped him for information. When me, Dobey, Huggy, and the whole police force tracked them down, and finally got the news out of them, we learned they’d beaten the information they wanted out of Starsky, which later turned out to be wrong, and then dumped him in the desert, left him for dead. They were mad that he lied to them, wished they’d kept him longer.

“He made it seem so realistic, man, like we really broke him. So we got rid of the pig, dumped him in the desert without water. Less messy that way, the boss said.”

When I heard that, my knees buckled under me. I thought I’d never see him alive again.

But—there was a chance. So we’d searched. And searched. It took us so long, that if he hadn’t found water, he’d have died. He must have found water. He was here, in the ranger’s station, like a mirage—but alive.

I reached out and touched him, to make sure.

His flesh was firm to the touch, and warm. It gave under my thumb.

“Took you long enough,” said Starsky, his way of making light of the situation, as he’d done when he was kidnapped by Marcus’s followers, and almost killed. Same as then, the words iced through me—not as he meant ‘em, but as they sounded, like blame, his accusation that I hadn’t been strong enough or fast enough or smart enough to save him sooner.

And he was right.

“Starsk. Are you okay? How bad did they hurt you?” I took his face in my hands, turned him to look at me. He let me move his head around as if he were a bobble-head, loose in my hands, staring at me. He nodded a little; pressure in my palms.

“Think they busted a rib. I’ve been hurting,” he admitted. “And my feet are sore.”

“They’ll patch you up. You’ll be okay. Anything else?”

He shook his head. “Just glad to be here. Glad I’m alive.” He moved towards me a little, even tired and drained as he was.

“Drink your water,” I ordered. I brought a hand up to his back and laid it there. He winced. I put my hand down; I couldn’t touch him yet.

They took him to a hospital, had the doctors go over him again, real careful. He was treated for sunburn with a cream. His blistered feet were bandaged. His ribs were x-rayed. They treated him with kid gloves, like a celebrity. They tolerated me, hanging around like an obnoxious ghost, haunting the hospital all the while.

Starsky had a sunny smile for everyone, even when he had to wince. He just seemed so glad to be alive.

He couldn’t get enough of the jello they gave him.

I kept wanting to touch him, but I knew I’d only hurt him more than he’d already been hurt.

He didn’t pay too much attention to me, tried to give the doctors and nurses the attention they needed, and he was very good for ‘em. But if I started to leave the room, he looked at me, cast me an enquiring glance, and I could see from that one glance that he didn’t want me to go. He was afraid I’d leave, and he didn’t want me to.

So I held it.

After awhile I couldn’t hold it any longer, and I said, “I have to pee, Starsk. I’ll be right back.” I wanted to touch him, give him a reassuring pat on the way out, but I didn’t know where I could dare touch him without hurting him. He was awfully game, but you could see he was still suffering from the effects of his beating. And where he hadn’t been hurt, he was sunburned. Some places both at once.

He got up immediately. “I’ll go too. I have to pee as well.”

“You do?” said the doctor. “That’s excellent news.”

They let him go with me, and asked him to describe the color of his urine when he got back.

“Not big on privacy, these doctors,” he observed.

He looked at me, a casual glance, but somehow he looked as if he wanted reassurance. What about?

I held the door for him. He went to a urinal and did his business carefully. He was slow and achy, and hurting. I took care of my business and washed up quickly, my heart in my throat, hating how it hurt him even to relieve himself. He washed up too.

Then I started to get the door for him.

“Hutch,” he said, and I stopped in my tracks.

“What?”

“Wait a second, huh?” He moved towards me, and touched my shirt. “I need something,” he said, looking up at me, his eyes looking almost as achy as the rest of him.

“What?” I asked again. I wanted so much to gather him to myself, and just give him a hug, but I knew even the gentlest I could be right now might not be gentle enough.

“It was hard out there all alone. I missed you. Just stick with me a little bit. Don’t leave me yet. And—and—” His hand brushed my shirt again, and he looked up at me. “Touch me,” he said, real quiet.

My heart ached. “I’ll hurt you.”

He shook his head. He was blushing a little even under his sunburn, but I knew what he meant. I was glad he needed the connection, too.

“Where don’t you hurt?” I asked him.

He hesitated. He couldn’t think of a place. “I need you to hug me. It won’t be better till you put your arms around me,” he said quietly. “I won’t be home till you do. Even if it hurts.”

I swallowed so hard it felt like my throat was breaking. I moved closer, and finally wrapped my arms around him. I held him as loose as I could.

I know it hurt him anyway, but he didn’t pull back.

He leaned against me, breathing against my shirt, closing his arms loosely around me in return. And finally, I heard him sigh—that deep-down, shaky sigh, a sigh of relief, a sigh that said he was finally home, and could let go, and it would be okay now.

That’s how I felt, too.

I held him as long as I dared, and then we separated, smiled at each other a little, half goofy, half sheepish—and all grateful.

Then we headed back out to let the doctors finish their work, so I could take him safely home.

I’d be staying over at his place for awhile, I knew. I also knew he wouldn’t want it any other way, even if I could convince myself to go home and not worry about him.

I held the door for him, and he went out, and I followed him, and tugged his hospital gown shut the rest of the way. They’re not big on privacy in hospitals, and I’ve never figured out why. I walked behind him, shielding him from the indignity of anyone staring, till we got back to his room and he was ensconced safely in bed, again sipping his water.

While the doctor was talking, Starsky’s eyes drifted back to mine. He didn’t say anything, and the doctor kept droning on, didn’t notice his patient’s attention had wandered.

Starsky looked relieved, reassured—like he could face whatever he had to, as long as I’d stay in sight, so he could be sure I was really here.

I gave him a little smile. I couldn’t do much else yet—couldn’t give him a hearty slap on the back, pat his knee, or tweak his toes as I walked by—but I could still smile at him.

After awhile, the doctor finished and left, and somebody brought more jello.

Starsky offered me half, but I didn’t take it. I’d been running on fumes for the last few days, but that was no excuse to steal my pal’s food. He gave me a considering look when I shook my head, but didn’t say anything.

After awhile, he fell asleep, without even finishing his green jello.

I stayed.

But not for long. Dobey arrived, and harrumphed, and told me I was supposed to go home and shower, that was an order. I think the nurses signed a petition.

He promised he’d sit with Starsky till I came back. He said I could eat something from the cafeteria here, as long as I showered and changed. I could see under his grumpy expression, that he was worried about me.

So I went home and showered and changed as quickly as I could.

I arrived back at the hospital and was almost running towards his room. I didn’t stop for a meal. Some internal sense told me Starsky needed me. I’d rather be wrong and miss a meal, than ignore that feeling and leave him alone when he needed me.

We’re both like this sometimes, after something stressful happens. Like we don’t want to be apart for awhile. Like nothing too bad can happen, as long as we’re together. I know it’s not true, because bad things have happened even when we were together. But the feeling is hard to shake.

When I pushed open the door, I could hear Dobey telling Starsky about his daughter’s play. Starsky had wanted to go and cheer for her, but he’d gotten kidnapped instead.

I walked in and saw Starsky, his eyes on the door. He’d been nodding listlessly to what Dobey said, looking like he was trying to pay attention to Dobey, but all his attention was really on the door.

The moment he saw me, his expression changed. Something about him came alive, and at the same time relaxed. He smiled and his eyes lit up.

“Hey Hutch,” he said. “You didn’t eat any jello.” He held a fresh cup out towards me. “I got extra this time.”

I grinned at him, a goofy grin I couldn’t wipe off my face. I sat down on the chair on the other side of his bed, opposite Dobey, and took the jello. “Thanks, Partner.”

It was okay now, we were together again.

Maybe we’re too close, that it hits us this way.

I know I’m not going to feel easy letting him out of my sight until he’s feeling a whole lot better than this. Even with Dobey watching.  
Dobey cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll see you later. Starsky, take it easy. Hutchinson—” He cleared his throat again. “You too.”

“Thanks, Cap,” said Starsky. “I’m sorry I missed the play. Tell Rosie sorry for me.” He looked up, his gaze registering on Dobey as if for the first time, and gave him an authentic smile. “Thanks, Cap.” He gave Dobey a ‘Starsky’ grin, and a little nod.

“Yeah, thanks, Cap,” I echoed. We both smiled at him, and he stared at us for a minute, looking a little choked up.

“Take it easy, boys,” he said in a gruff voice, and left the room quickly.

I looked down and realized our hands had slipped into each other’s grips. Starsky laughed self-consciously and pulled his hand free.

I looked at Starsky. “He never got as many second chances with Elmo as we did. I’ll bet it still hurts.”

He sobered. “Yeah. I’ll bet you’re right.”

“Starsk.”

“What, Hutch?”

I caught his hand again, and gave it gentle pressure. “How many second chances do you think we’ll get? Even a cat only has nine lives.”

His gaze turned cautious. “What are you saying, Hutch?”

“I’m saying—let’s not wait till we have to retire, huh? Let’s enjoy a few years before it’s too late, and we’re only fit for a nursing home.”

Still he didn’t say anything. I thought maybe he was upset; he looked sort of blank.

“But Hutch, that’s what old people do—retire. We’re not old.”

I pointedly looked at the gray in his hair, at his chest, where scars lurked beneath his hospital gown. He was as old as a raggedy rabbit toy, beaten around by life.

He complained, “Hutch!” and pulled the sheet up over his chest, as if to hide the scars he wasn’t usually self-conscious about.

“I don’t know how many more times I can lose you, Starsk,” I said quietly.

“You didn’t. I’m here.”

We sat in silence, holding hands, jello between us, and my words. I gave his hand a squeeze and released it. “Just think about it, okay?”

Wordlessly, he nodded.

“Now hand me one of those spoons,” I instructed.

He did.

I ate the green jello he’d gotten for me. It tasted good, industrial and artificial, smooth and sweet.

I knew he’d think more about what I’d said, and I would too. And whatever he’d decided, I’d love him anyway, and stick with him.

For now, I ate jello with him, in the streaming afternoon sun, in a hospital room.

>>


End file.
